P   S 

1939 

H6 

F7 

1888 

MAIN 


GERMAN   LIBRARY. 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA. 

GIETO 


i88  8 


Received. 
Accessions  No. 


Shelf  No. 


FOURTEEN 


SONNETS 


BY 

WARREN    HOLDEN. 


s 

PRESS    OF 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


Copyright,  1888,  by 
J  £<£ 


WARREN  HOLDEN. 


CONTENTS. 


I.   SUNRISE. 
II.   HERE. 

III.  LOVE'S  AWAKENING. 

IV.  Now. 

V.    ART-OWNERSHIP. 
VI.   "QuiD  TIMES?    C^SAREM  VEHIS." 
VII.   THE  VIOLIN. 
VIII.   UNREST. 
IX.   THE  VILLAGE  CHURCH. 
X.   HOPE. 

XI.  THANKSGIVING. 
XII.   To  WHOM  BELONGS  BEAUTY? 

XIII.  "THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH.' 

XIV.  SUNSET. 


I. 
SUNRISE. 

THE  cheerful  cock  foretells  the  coming  day : 
The  stars  burn  dim  as  one  by  one  they  die, 
While  gradual  dawn  creeps  up  the  Eastern  sky, 
And  rosy  blushes  tinge  the  sober  gray. 

At  once  the  golden  splendor  bursts  its  way, 
Unfurls  its  flaming  banner  flashing  high, 
And  rallies  friend  and  foe  that  sleeping  lie, 
To  join  again  in  life's  returning  fray. 

O  sun  of  Love  Divine,  in  glory  rise  : 

Dispel  the  dreams  that  haunt  our  dreary  night. 
With  healing  touch  restore  our  blinded  eyes, 

That  we  may  see  the  light  within  Thy  light ; 
And  by  Thy  wisdom  rendered  truly  wise, 
Transcending  faith,  may  walk  henceforth  by  sight. 


II. 
HERE. 

DISLOYAL  scorner  of  his  native  land, 

Th'  inconstant  traveller,  with  roaming  eyes, 
Explores  the  earth  to  find,  'neath  foreign  skies, 
Conditions  happier  than  near  at  hand. 

He  dreams  a  paradise  on  distant  strand, 

Where  he,  good  fortune's  heir,   expects  a  prize. 
What  marvel  then  if  thoughtless  youth  despise 
The  plain  realities  that  round  him   stand. 
'The  true  Utopia  is  only  found 

Where  master-minds  their  destinies  create, 

And  through  endurance  prove  them  doubly  dear. 

The  place  whereon  we  stand  is  holy  ground. 
The  nearest  duty  weaves  the  web  of  fate. 
Reward  and  work  are  one  ;  and  heaven  is  here. 


III. 
LOVE'S  AWAKENING. 

O  SWEET  surprise  !     Thou  image  of  my  dream, 
Fair  maiden,   seen  by  only  passing  glance, 
Yet  shrined  in  memory,   like  saintly  trance, 
Revealing  heaven  through  but  a  single  gleam  ! 

No  fleeting  phantom  cast  that  dazzling  beam  : 
A  living  presence  thou  didst  timely  chance 
'Twixt  real  and  ideal  world's  romance, 
And  hope's  unbounded  promises  redeem. 

Rare  angel  guest  hath  blest  me  unawares, 

And  chosen  friends  have  cheered  life's  lengthening  way  ; 
Besides  my  other  self,   love's  counterpart. 

But  thou  didst  kindle  love's  delightful  cares. 

Though  threescore  years  conspire  to  hide  that  day, 
Thou'rt  still  the  key  that  first  unlocked  my  heart. 


IV. 

NOW. 

THE  Past  is  dead.     Let  Lethe's  waters  close 
Above  its  vain  regrets,  a  brood  of  care. 
The  ghosts  of  joys  departed  haunt  the  air 
With  discontent ;   and  mar  the  heart's  repose. 

The  false  mirage  of  hope  at  distance  glows, 
Alluring  voyageur  with  promise  fair, 
That  oft  misleads  his  soul  to  fatal  snare. 
The  Future  mortal  seer  but  dimly  knows. 

Incessant  battle  must  the  Present  wage, 

Unswerved  by  hope,   that  dazzles  to  betray, 
Or  sad-eyed  memory  mourning  broken  vow. 

Well-balanced  manhood  treads  the  world's  grand  stage, 
And  plays  its  realistic  parts  to-day. 
The  life  that  lives  is  one  eternal  Now. 


V. 

ART-OWNERSHIP. 

CREATIONS  of  High  Art  adorn  the  land  : 

Her  handmaid,  heaven-born  genius,  finding  joy 
In  self-appointed  tasks  the  days  employ. 
All  thanks  to  Patronage  with  open  hand. 

If  artist  seem  to  work  at  its  command, 

Becomes  art-treasure  thence  its  private  toy, 
To  hide  at  pleasure  or  through  whim  destroy, 
While  cultivated  taste  may  longing  stand? 

Exclusiveness  is  kin  to  miser's  lust. 

The  true  custodian,  with  princely  grace, 
Displays  his  gems  of  art  to  all  mankind. 

A  faithful  steward,  he  but  holds  in  trust, 

For  common  use,  the  heirlooms  of  the  race. 
Art-ownership  is  vested  in  the  mind. 


OK     ' 

UNIT' 


VI. 

"QUID  TIMES?    C/ESAREM  VEHIS." 

THE  waves   ran  high  along  the  stormy  strait : 

The  anxious  boatman  strained  each  nerve  to  steer 
The  fragile  skiff  through  dangers  crowding  near, 
While  Caesar  calm  revolved  the  cares  of  state. 

Whom  destiny  had  fashioned  to  be  great, 
The  world-wide  conqueror,  deriding  fear, 
Rebuked  the  timid  oarsman  with  a  sneer  : 
"What  fearest,  bearing  Caesar,  ward  of  fate?" 

While  Jesus  slept,  uprose  the  water-wraith. 

Alarmed  they  woke  him.     "Peace,  be  still,"  he  said. 
The  winds  and  sea  obeyed  the  potent  spell. 

"Why  are  ye  fearful,  ye  of  little  faith? 

Where  I  am  can  be  naught  of  harm  to  dread." 
Safe  fares  the  heart  where  God  is  pleased  to  dwell. 


VII. 

THE  VIOLIN. 

THE  Heart's  Own  Voice,  sweet  viol,  be  thy  name, 
Whose  throbbing  chords  are  tuned  to  every  tone 
Of  passion's  scale  to  human  bosom  known. 

Dost  thou  discourse  of  love  ?     The  lover's  frame 

Responsive  trembles  and  reveals  the  flame. 

Is  grief  thy  theme  ?     What  sympathy  is  shown 
On  every  face  !     Mayhap  there   bursts  a  moan. 

Thy  gentle  chiding  wakens  conscious  blame. 

Spontaneous  pleasure  leads  the  nimble  dance 
Where'er  thy  wizard  wand  a  challenge  flings, 
'Neath  stately  roof  or  green-wood  tree  perchance. 

And  when  repentance  wavers  o'er  the  strings 

Their  pleading  prayers  the  contrite  heart  entrance. 
And  waft  it  heavenward  as  on  angel  wings. 


VIII. 

UNREST. 

WHENCE  cometh  discontent?     Let  fortune's  Guest, 

When  tired  of  ease,  ambition's  part  assume  ; 

On  honor's  field  then  let  him  cull  the  bloom, 

While  friendship  lends  good  luck  a  keener  zest. 
And  yet  his  bosom  hides  a  vague  unrest. 

The  one  thing  wanting  seems  afar  to  loom. 

With  Tantalus  he  shares  a  tedious  doom, 

Pursuing  ever  some  elusive  quest. 
Wouldst  thou  absorb  the  Universal  Soul  ? 

Must  Life  Divine  thy  private  drama  play? 

Confined  to  narrow  selfhood's  petty  role, 
It  chafes  and  wears  the  weary  heart  away. 

Give  life  free  course.     Give  love  entire  control. 

Give  all  thou  hast.     Good  measure  God  will  pay. 


IX. 

THE  VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

To  all  the  country-side  a  landmark  fair 

Outstands  the  church  upon  the  village  green. 

Its  "heaven-pointing  finger"  far  is  seen, 

To  beckon  man  away  from  worldly  care. 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  fears  assemble  there : 

Repentance,  led  by  Faith  to  Peace  serene, 

If  sacrilegious  Self  step  not  between  ; 

And  Love,  thrice  hallowed  in  the  house  of  prayer. 
But  doth  the  visible  church  content  thy  choice  ? 

And  serves  its  altar  as  salvation's  mart  ? 

Or  dwelleth  safety  with  its  countless  host  ? 
The  Spirit's  message  comes  in  still  small  voice, 

Which  saith :   God's  kingdom  is  within  the  heart. 

Ye  are  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 


X. 

HOPE. 

ILLUSIVE  hope,  though  oft  deceived  by  thee, 
The  heart  still  clings  and  will  not  let  thee  go, 
Last  specious  anchor  left  in  stress  of  woe, 
When  tossed  about  on  life's  tempestuous  sea. 

Adroit  deceiver,  yet  beguiling  me, 

Thy  willing  dupe,  I  cannot  count  thee  foe, 
While  mid  the  raging  battle's  frantic  throe 
Thy  flag  still  glimmers,  faint  perhaps,  yet  free. 

Thus  are  we  lured  along  the  doubtful  way 
By  fitful  confidence  in  promise  bright 
Of  hope's  fair  star,  whose  intermittent  ray 

Now  leaves  us  groping  in  the  murky  night ; 
Until  it  melts  into  eternal  day, 
When  we  may  walk  in  heaven's  transcendent  light. 


XI. 

THANKSGIVING. 

To  God,  the  Giver,  thanks  for  all  He  wills. 
His  hand  hath  planted  us  on  kindly  soil, 
Which  teeming  harvest  yields  to  honest  toil, 
And  many  a  spacious  barn  with  plenty  fills. 

His  are  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills. 

He  bids  us  freely  share  the  countless  spoil  ; 
Whilst  bursting  presses  flow  with  wine  and  oil, 
And  industry  swift  turns  her  busy  mills. 

But  thank  Him  most  for  mind,   through  culture  free 
To  scan  His  large  designs  and  share  His  thought ; 
And  worship  more  with  heart  than  bended  knee. 

By  neither  fear  nor  favor  weakly  wrought, 
Yet  quick  the  claims  of  brotherhood  to  see, 
The  man  will  dare  to  do  the  thing  he  ought. 


XII. 

TO  WHOM   BELONGS   BEAUTY? 

'Tis  mine,  wherever  beauty  shows  its  face  : 
Not  mine  to  handle  with  familiar  hands  ; 
Not  captive  held  by  lover's  selfish  bands 
To  be  caressed  with  foolish  fond  embrace. 

But,  like  a  delicately  chiselled  vase, 

'Tis  mine  to  worship  where  apart  it  stands, 
In  chaste  obedience  to  His  pure  commands, 
Who  owns  all  souls  and  clothes  them  with  His  grace. 

Not  thine  the  charms  thy  form  doth  represent. 

Thou'rt  but  the  clay  that's  shaped  by  artist's  skill. 
"The  beauty  of  the  Lord"  to  thee  is  lent. 

Then  wear  thine  honors  meekly  at  His  will. 
To  serve  as  beauty's  shadow  be  content, 
Till  beauty's  substance — love — thy  being  fill. 


XIII. 

"THE  WIND   BLOWETH  WHERE   IT  LISTETH." 

YE  whirlwinds,  ministers  of  heaven's  wrath, 
Which  scour  the  earth  in  terrible  forray, 
Like  roaring  lions  seeking  after  prey, 
Ye  scatter  desolation  on  your  path. 

Sweet  breath  of  western  breeze,   thy  perfumed  bath 
Revives  the  pilgrim  fainting  by  the  way, 
Inspiring  soft  repose  at  close  of  day, 
And  waking  hope  of  life's  calm  after-math. 

Ye  passion-storms  that  seize  us  unawares, 

And  drive  us — slaves,   to  work  your  wicked  will, 
O  cease  from  troubling  while  the  weary  rest. 

Peace-breathing  Spirit,  blending  with  our  prayers, 
Thy  tranquil  voice,   in  whisper  small  and  still, 
Foretells  the  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  blest. 


XIV. 

SUNSET. 

WHILE  wending  home  in  sunset's  golden  blaze, 
The  western  splendor  lures  each  wistful  eye 
To  pay  due  homage  to  the  gorgeous  sky. 

What  rapture  bursts  in  sudden  words  of  praise, 

Or  burns  more  eloquent  in  silent  gaze  ! 

For  one  brief  moment  heaven  draweth  nigh. 
It  fades  away  ;   and  with  a  parting  sigh, 

We  go,  in  musing  mood,   our  several  ways. 

Entrancing  vision,  whence  thy  fleeting  sheen, 
Returning  oft  at  twilight's  witching  hour? 
Art  thou  the  bright  mirage  of  fairy-land  ? 

In  dreams  transported  to  that  magic  scene, 
Of  rosy  walk  and  paradisal  bower, 
Enchanted  lovers  wander  hand  in  hand. 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIE 


